In a city where change often comes faster than a drive-thru order, Yesterdog remains a constant, like a glowing time capsule that promises a tasty experience. Since 1976, the iconic Eastown hot dog stand has been more than just a place for a quick Cheddardog—it’s a hub of neighborhood character, counterculture charm, and a community gathering space that has inspired patrons who dared to visit.
When word got out that founder Bill Lewis had sold Yesterdog after nearly 50 years, the community held its collective breath—as I did when I got the call from him. However, it’s clear that Lewis, 80, wasn’t just looking to cash out.
Photo of the Veteran whose widow often visits to “have lunch” with.
“The place wasn’t for sale,” Lewis says during a sit-down inside the always-buzzing shop. “But in two months, four different people came to me seriously wanting to buy it.”
Ultimately, it was Pat Connor and Lisa Rapoport, a property manager and former school teacher with no restaurant experience, who convinced him.
“They just kept saying, ‘We’re good people. We’ll do right by this place.’ And I believed them,” Lewis says.
Someplace different
That leap of faith may turn out to be another in a long series of great decisions.
Yesterdog has always been an outlier. At a time when Eastown was primarily known for empty storefronts and late-night brawls, Lewis recognized opportunity in the gaps.
“There wasn’t anywhere to eat late in Eastown in 1976,” he says. “So I opened a place that would be open when people needed it.”
New owners Pat Connor and Lisa Rapoport sit down with Bill Lewis at Yesterdog.
It all started with a hot dog stand, born from hunger, humor, and a name, Yesterdog, that came before the business plan itself.
Although the menu has stayed simple, the space has evolved into something quite different. Every inch of the walls is adorned with vintage signs and hundreds of photos of people worldwide sporting Yesterdog’s signature T-shirt, complete with its mustard and ketchup dots.
That tradition was launched by a former employee in the 1980s and now functions as a living photo album of community memory.
“We ran out of wall space long ago,” Lewis says.
“But we’re looking at adding a digital photo frame or gallery to keep the tradition going without losing the analog vibe,” Connor says, as he and Rapoport think about how to bring in more of the images still arriving nearly 50 years later.
Respecting the history
That’s the delicate balancing act the new owners are trying to achieve—keeping the same vibe without getting stuck in the past. The couple has strong ties to East Grand Rapids. Rapoport remembers visiting Yesterdog as a kid and understands its significance in the community.
“My brother called it ‘the coolest thing someone from West Michigan could ever do,’” she says about the sale. “It really feels like an honor.”
For now, the only noticeable change to the location will be the addition of an on-site ATM, so the restaurant can adhere to its cash-only rule while keeping patrons from leaving mid-hot dog craving.
You never know who you will bump into at Yesterdog, like performer Audra Larsen, who was in town last week.
The signature “tip target” remains, as does the analog ordering system, where staffers do the math in their heads. The register buttons don’t even work. It’s about trust,” Lewis says about the system of “cashing out” that still exists in many Detroit-based coney stands. “You tell folks the price, they pay it. That’s it.”
What’s behind the kitsch is an unlikely model of business resilience. While recessions shook up other companies, Yesterdog’s affordability kept it afloat.
“When times are tough, people trade down from high-end dining,” Lewis says. “So while some may cut back on hot dogs, others step in as we pick them up.”
Even during COVID, when delivery apps became essential, Yesterdog remained a popular spot. The new owners continue to offer limited delivery through apps, but their emphasis is on bringing people into the space, not just pushing food out the door.
In touch with community
And people keep coming, often with their stories. Just last week, Rapoport met a widow who regularly visits with a photo of her late husband, a veteran, and has lunch with him.
“We were all tearing up,” she says about hearing the widow’s story. “Everyone who visits often has a Yesterdog story.”
That community connection extends beyond nostalgia. Lewis hosted everything from grassroots fundraisers to presidential whistle stops. “We had (former Gov. Jennifer) Granholm out front with a Motown band and people packed down the street,” he recalled. “Yesterdog gave them a reason to stop here.”
A typical booth at Yesterdog always includes plenty of community imagery collected over the years.
Connor and Rapoport aim to keep that civic spirit alive with a new series called “Make a Difference Mondays.” On these Mondays, nonprofits can team up with the restaurant to earn a percentage of that day’s sales.
“There’s no downside,” said Connor. “It’s a way to show up for the groups doing important work.”
For Lewis, that’s precisely the kind of legacy he hoped to preserve.
“It’s not expensive to do good things,” he says. “It just takes intention.”
And intention is something this transition has plenty of. Whether it’s keeping long-time employee benefits, teaming up with neighbors like Vinyl Alchemy, or reviving Yesterdog’s catering arm, the new owners are treating the business as not just a brand, but as a cherished community staple.
Next year marks Yesterdog’s 50th anniversary. Plans are already underway for limited-edition shirts and, hopefully, a reunion with Lewis.
“We’d love to include him,” says Rapoport, who is training to relaunch the catering side of the business. “He is Yesterdog.”
Maybe that’s the story here: in a world obsessed with reinvention and constant shifts, Yesterdog shows us that legacy isn’t about fighting change—it’s about keeping one’s soul intact.
Photos by Tommy Allen
